The Secret Must Be Kept From All

But Helpless Pieces Of The Game He Plays Upon This Checker-board Of Nights And Days; Hither And Thither Moves, And Checks, And Slays, And One By One Back In The Closet Lays.

I Wonder What The Vintners Buy One Half So Precious As The Stuff They Sell.

Dust Into Dust, And Under Dust To Lie, Sans Wine, Sans Song, Sans Singer, And-sans End!

A Drink Is Shorter Than A Tale

The Moving Finger Writes; And, Having Writ, Moves On: Nor All Your Piety Nor Wit Shall Lure It Back To Cancel Half A Line, Nor All Your Tears Wash Out A Word Of It.